Hungry
by KellieKat
Summary: Her train of thought came to a screeching halt as she tried again to tug up the zipper on the back of her dress. It still wouldn't budge.


Penelope groaned as the alarm from her phone blared its wake up call through her bedroom. Another day, another 77 cents, she thought rather cynically as she groaned and stumbled out of bed. Well, she decided as she reached towards her nightstand for her favorite two-tone pink glasses, if I hurry, maybe I could at least stop for breakfast on the way to work. Few things improved her morning like a sugary blueberry muffin from her favorite Quantico bakery.

With a bit more pep in her step at the thought, Penelope rather efficiently brushed her teeth, curled her hair, and perfected her makeup before heading over to her closet to find the dress she knew matched the sparkly eye shadow for which she'd opted. It was one of her favorites - not quite knee length with a sweetheart neckline, a cute floral print, and, best of all, pockets. Yes, Penelope grinned at the thought that today might not be such a bad day after all - between the way her curls seemed to fall just right and the cute dog she'd seen out the bathroom window and the blessed pockets on her dress and the muffin she was happily anticipating and th-

Her train of thought came to a screeching halt as she tried again to tug up the zipper on the back of her dress. It still wouldn't budge. No.

Penelope felt her cheeks heat up and her breath becoming shallower. Although there was no one else in her apartment, she found herself feeling exposed, vulnerable, and incredibly embarrassed. How could this have happened? Garcia panicked as she thought back over her food and exercise choices over the past weeks, trying desperately to determine what change in her routine could have led her to gain so much weight that her dress wouldn't even zip. How could she not have noticed this happening?

The dress she'd been so excited to wear suddenly seemed to be strangling her, and as upset as she was that she couldn't get it on, she was now frantically clawing to get it off as unwelcome tears dripped down her face. She'd worked so hard for so long, lost all that weight, and now she felt herself facing a particular shade of shame she thought she'd put in her past. God, she was sick of fighting with her body.

Something's got to change, she vowed, wiping off her makeup to start fresh. She'd have to change dresses, obviously, and that meant all new makeup, too. There was no way she'd have time for the bakery now, but that was probably for the best, she reasoned. After all, wasn't it indulgences like muffins that had put her in this situation in the first place? Yes, if she wanted anything to be different - and god, she did - she couldn't keep putting crap like that in her body.

It was a long time before Penelope finally emerged from her bedroom into her apartment's small kitchen. Redoing one's makeup after an emotional breakdown, she had learned over the years, tends to take longer than doing it the first time. Looks like I don't have time for breakfast at all, she reasoned with a glance at her microwave clock. She decided it would be best to pack a healthier lunch rather than going out with Emily or Derek again today, so she pulled her favorite lunchbox out from the closet and started searching her refrigerator and her cupboards for something to pack.

Unfortunately, everything she found seemed to make her heart beat a little bit faster and her mind flash back to the horrible realization that the dress was to tight - bread and crackers were just empty carbs, no way; chips and pretzels were nonstarters, obviously; and she scoffed at the overripe bananas on her counter as she remembered a fad diet from years ago that had forbidden them, claiming they were loaded with sugar and calories. Looks like I need to go grocery shopping.

With a small sigh, Penelope poured herself a quick cup of tea, put a couple of diet sodas in her lunchbox in hopes that the caffeine would tide her over at lunchtime, and headed out the door.


End file.
